


Prompted Short Works

by ponticle



Series: Ponticle's Collected Shorts [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: DAPromptExchange, Fluff and Smut, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Mostly Fluff, NSFW, Other, Romance, Sex, Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr Prompts, documentary film, let it glow event
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 13,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All my prompted shorts, conveniently labeled by pairing. :)</p><p>Thanks for reading! </p><p>If you have any prompts for me, find me on <a href="http://ponticle.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/ponticle">twitter</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surprise [Alistair x Cullen]

 

* * *

 

“ _What_?” Cullen’s mouth hung open. I watched the color drain from his face.

I thought I’d made a mistake—my chest caved in on itself. I was broken—defeated. My knee on the floor was suddenly _embarrassing_ —why had I thought this was a good idea? In the time it took him to collect himself, I ran through fifty improbable scenarios—ways to take this back, to mitigate its impact, to retract this _question_. Before he drew in his next breath, I had backed up—I looked down at my feet and tried to stand. _That_ was when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Alistair?” his voice was soft— _inviting_ , even. “ _Yes_.”

My breath hitched. “What?” Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded.

“I said _yes_ ,” he repeated. He kneeled in front of me until we were eye to eye. His hands found their way to the back of that knee—the knee suspended in mid-air, the symbol of all this boyish bravery.

“I love you.” I gaped, suddenly collapsing into him. My lips moved wordlessly, forming the shape of every endearment I could _imagine_ calling him. When we separated, I wouldn’t let him go far. “Are you sure?” I asked, a pang of incredulity stabbing me.

His face _cracked_ —his scar pulled taut and his incisor peeked from under a curling lip. “Of course,” he laughed, “let’s get _married_.”

           


	2. Alone [Alistair x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt from tumblr: "If you're still doing prompts... How about a smutty solo-play thing in the Affair universe? *blush*"
> 
> I am more than happy to oblige.
> 
> Alistair - Anders - Affair Universe.

The afternoon light was streaming in through my bedroom windows. On Tuesday afternoons, I finished early. I normally spent the time writing, but this particular afternoon I was exhausted. I’d made the mistake of flopping down on my bed between taking off my suit and putting on my gym shorts. I’d tied them in place, but I hadn’t managed to put a shirt on yet.

For a few minutes, I closed my eyes and breathed. I wished Anders was home transiently. I missed him _every_ time we were apart—regardless of the duration. This particular week, he was due to be returning from a meeting in Highever. He was trying to get transferred to Denerim full time. I thought he might _love_ me, although we hadn’t said that yet. I certainly knew I loved him.

As I let my mind wander to Anders, I noticed something else growing in my gut—the prickling sensation of arousal that I _wished_ he was around to assuage… but he _wasn’t_. I was _alone_. I smiled to myself—there are worse things than time and opportunity.

I let my hand trail over my bare abdomen and plunge below the waist of my shorts. My cock bucked up to my hand of its own volition. I moaned unintentionally and started to thrust into my encircled fingers and thumb.

'I wish this was you, Sweetheart,' I thought.

I remembered the night before he left on this trip. We’d made love for hours—it wasn’t _fucking_ , in my opinion. It started slow and gentle and ended with low guttural moans and growls. I _begged_ him not to go. He argued that our reuniting would be all the sweeter. Maybe he was right.

The memory of our lovemaking made me harder. A hot wave spiked across my skin and I pushed my shorts down to my ankles and kicked them somewhere across the floor. _Why not?_

I started to moan as I picked up the pace. I remembered the way Anders had said my name when I was inside him. He bit his bottom lip and his eyelids strained closed as I fucked him. Between us, his cock twitched and spilled—a sticky mess all over my abdomen. But I didn’t care, I let it fall and kissed him harder as I approached my own orgasm. Making love to him was as close to The Maker’s Side as I could imagine.

I was beating off in earnest now—nearing an edge—when the door to my bedroom swung _open_.

I scrambled backward, as embarrassed as a teenager caught with pornography.

Anders was laughing. “Well, well…”

I was blushing from my cheeks to my chest. I kneeled; trying—ineffectively—to cover myself.

He slowly got out of his suit—vest thrown aside, buttons undone one by one. When his pants and underclothes were also a memory, he crawled into bed next to me.

“At first, I thought you were cheating on me,” he said.

I wasn’t sure if he was serious. “That’s _ridiculous_ ,” I said defensively. “I would _never_. I was thinking about _you_ actually.”

He smiled, “Oh yeah?” He encircled me with his arms and kissed my neck. “Show me how that goes…”


	3. Kittens [Alistair x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alistair and Anders volunteer at an animal shelter.
> 
> Affair universe. <3

* * *

 

“If you loved me, you’d let me adopt _this one_ at least,” grumbled Anders. He held the tiny white kitten against his chest and pretended to cover its ears. “Don’t listen to that _mean_ Alistair… he doesn’t understand how great you are…” Then he glared at me, “ _yet_.”

 _That’s_ when I knew we were getting another cat. In the years since our cohabitation, our house slowly became a menagerie… and despite my desire for a _dog_ , so far we only had cats—three of them, to be exact.

“Our condo is kind of small for _four_ cats,” I complained. I knew he’d won already, I was just going through the motions at this point.

“We have space for this little guy,” he squished the kitten’s head into his face. “He’s _tiny_.”

I looked down at my wedding ring. “How many more cats am I contractually obligated to adopt in our lives?” I asked.

“As many as I want… if you didn’t want a bunch of cats, you shouldn’t have married me,” he laughed.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have agreed to go to the shelter in the first place if I didn’t want another cat. I should have known that, ‘ _let’s do some charity work at the animal shelter_ ,’ meant ‘ _We’re getting another cat today_.’

“I guess he _is_ pretty adorable,” I reached out toward the kitten. Anders transferred him to my hands. He was so tiny he fit into just one palm. “What have you named him?”

“You think I already gave him a name?” Anders lifted an eyebrow, but he was blushing.

“I _know_ you did,” I laughed.

“Whitney,” answered Anders. “He’s a fancy, old-timey cat.”

We both laughed.

“Okay, Whitney,” the kitten curled into my chest and purred, “let’s get your papers filled out…”

As I approached the event coordinator, we exchanged a knowing expression. It was a small price to pay, though, to keep my husband happy. He’s the most important person in the world to me. What’s a house full of fur compared to _that_?

* * *

 


	4. Jealousy [Alistair x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: a humorous jealousy scene in The Affair universe.
> 
> Alistair x Anders

Anders is a really good looking man. He puts himself together exceptionally well—clothes, hair, grooming, smile. _He's a 10_. There was a period near the beginning when I would have called him an 11.

I, unfortunately, am not the _only_ person to notice how good looking he is. This frequently causes problems in public places.

 

* * *

 

“Can I get you anything else?” asked a young, blonde server. She couldn't have been older than 25. She was clearly _only_ speaking to him. “Some… _Dessert…_ Maybe?” she asked, leaning into his side of the booth.

“We could _look_ ,” he smiled at me.

She ran off gleefully.

I harrumphed. “So are you going to let her suck your dick here at the table or invite her home?”

Anders laughed, although he was blushing. “ _Sweetie_ …” He grabbed my hands across the table, “the only person I want giving me head under this table is you…”

I smiled, despite myself.

He tapped my hand on the table. “ _Well_?” He gestured with his eyes. “Are you going to get down there or not?”

I laughed and tightened my grip on his hands. “She's just so _young_ ,” I complained.

“She could be our daughter,” he laughed and grimaced. We were in our forties at the time, but he looked _better_ every year. His graying temples suited him—I couldn't _wait_ for him to be a silver fox.

“I'm going to the restroom,” I announced. “Don't run off with her while I'm gone…” I stood and looked at him warningly, “Okay?” I smirked.

“I'm not sure I can promise that.” He winked.

 

* * *

 

In the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. The years had actually been quite kind to me too—I wasn't wrinkly; I didn't have many gray hairs at all. I was still very fit, thanks to my squash club. _Still_ , a tiny whisper of a fear lingered—would Anders find someone he liked better? Not necessarily physically… Maybe someone who stimulated his mind in a way I didn't. Perhaps another attorney, a surgeon, an _astronaut_? _No one_ can compete with an astronaut. I laughed at my reflection. We'd been together for almost 10 years. We were okay.

 

* * *

 

Back at the table, I saw that same server leaning over him on my approach. Only this time she was joined by her equally young and attractive brunette friend. They were laughing at something Anders had said and touching his arm.

I fumed.

“Excuse me,” I said, sneaking behind the brunette one. Her nametag read 'Brooke.' The one who had been serving us all night was 'Jane.'

“Al,” said Anders, “they were wondering if we wanted to go to this acoustic set across the way after… apparently a friend of theirs is playing,” he explained.

I couldn't understand _what_ his angle was. I fiddled with my wedding band absently. “I guess…”

“He guesses,” said Anders to the girls. “That's about as much of an endorsement as you'll _ever_ get out of him.” He smiled as they fawned. The brunette one seemed to be ‘for me’ based on her body language.

“Well, we will meet you there, all right?” asked Anders.

They nodded in unison and disappeared into the bowels of the restaurant.

“What was _that_ about?” I asked on the way back to the car.

“For fun…” said Anders. He suddenly pushed me against the side of the car. It was so hard, he almost knocked the wind out of me.

I coughed, “Hi?”

“I love you,” he whispered an inch away from my face. “You _know_ that, right?”

“Yeah…” I said warily. “Why do I get the feeling you're planning something _crazy_?”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “When was the last time you had sex with a woman?”

My mouth felt a little dry. “ _What_?”

“No, _when,”_ he corrected.

“Um…” I tried to think back. “Maybe 9 and a half years ago?” I answered.

“ _Exactly_ … And it's been even longer for me,” he explained. “Wouldn't it be kind of fun to fuck these coeds?”

I couldn't _believe_ he was saying that. I looked at him wide eyed. “Are you insane?”

“Al… live a little…” he complained. His hand was snaking its way around my waist and under the hem of my shirt. “We'll do it together— _obviously_.”

“How are we going to _explain_ that?” I asked. I imagined bringing them home to our apartment. They'd wonder why ‘roommates’ only had one real bedroom. If they used the bathroom they'd see all sorts of vaguely gay paraphernalia. I almost laughed at the scene unfolding in my mind.

“We are going to _tell_ them we're married,” said Anders.

I looked at him blankly.

“I'm not an _asshole_ , Al,” said Anders, stepping back from me. “I'm not going to trick them. I'm going to tell them we haven't been with women in ages and ask if they'd like to have no-string-attached-sex with us tonight.”

I felt myself getting sweaty. I swallowed hard. “I _guess_ … If—if that's what you _want…_ ” I felt a little sick. All I wanted was _him_.

Anders looked at me for a long moment. His eyebrow was twitching slightly.

“Sweet Andraste,” he finally said. He was suddenly laughing— _hysterically_. He clutched his chest and closed his eyes. He was flailing a few feet away from me in the parking lot. “I really had you going, didn't I?”

I blushed. I wasn't sure what to say, although a wave of relief was starting to wash over me.

“Alistair,” he approached me, arms outstretched, “are you crazy? I would _never_ do that.” He kissed my cheek and interlaced his fingers behind my neck.

“Maker,” I breathed, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I was _this close_ to crying…” I laughed ironically.

“Oh, _Al,_ ” he soothed. “You're unbelievable. I was just teasing you…” As he kissed me, I felt his lips curve into a smile. “When you went to the bathroom, we got talking. They asked what we were up to later. I said, ‘my _husband_ and I didn't have any plans later.’ They were very quick to invite us out…”

“You're the _worst_ ; you know that?” I laughed, now hugging him in earnest. “I was trying to remember how all that _anatomy_ works…” I joked. “There is a _lot_ more going on down there…”

He feigned ignorance, “They have something different down there?”

I let the laughter die around us. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too…” said Anders. “Now let's go see the friend with the guitar… I imagine he also has a goatee—or some other ironic facial hair,” said Anders.

“And probably flannel… and combat boots,” I added.

“A wallet with a chain?” suggested Anders.

I nodded, “A beanie—for sure.”

After that day, I never worried about Anders again. I have to give him credit for knowing how to _cure_ me. He pushed me to the eventuality of my fears to remind me how _ridiculous_ they were. He's so smart like that. Smart _and_ handsome—that's my husband. I'm so lucky.


	5. Middle of the Night Sex [Alistair x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this is NSFW... The prompt was for middle-of-the-night sex. This is within The Affair Universe.

Have you ever been woken up for sex? It’s two in the morning and there’s suddenly a dick nudging insistently against your lower back? I guess the anatomy is a dead giveaway—it _wasn’t_ my ex wife who used to wake me up like that. Cullen used to pull that shit all the time, though. I’d finally curl onto my side and start to dream about a life where he actually loved me (most likely) and he’d wake me up. Not that I was _unhappy_ about it at the time.

Anyway, after Cullen and I broke up (Is it fair to say ‘ _broke up_ ’? More like, _‘almost destroyed each other’_ ) no one woke me up in the middle of the night for sex anymore. When Anders and I went to sleep, we curled _into_ each other—a muddle of sheets and hair and limbs—and woke up as the same disastrous mess. We made love before bed and _often_ in the mornings, but _never_ in the middle of the night. I wondered if he was just a deep sleeper.

One particular night about four months into our cohabitation, I came to bed late. I’d been stuck at the paper clearing up some kind of formatting nightmare until about 10pm. He had court in the morning, so he was already asleep when I finally got home. His hair was fanned out on the pillow behind him and he was breathing a little louder than usual. He looked absolutely _beautiful_.

When I came back from the bathroom—clean and ready to pour myself into bed next to him—I noticed his brow was furrowed. He shook slightly.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” I whispered—more to myself than to him, “are you having a nightmare?”

I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him against my chest. That was when I _noticed_ —he had a huge hard-on. To be clear, his erections were _always_ huge—that was just an _anatomical fact_ —but the skin was straining and taut in a way I rarely saw it.

‘ _Anders, you brat_ ,’ I thought, gripping him. I pumped experimentally. He didn’t wake up, but he rolled onto his back. I almost laughed—his dick was making a pronounced tent in the sheets.

I got bolder: I ducked my head under the blankets and crawled down between his knees. I licked tentatively at the crown of his cock. He shuddered slightly, but still didn’t seem to wake up. This was becoming a game now. I wanted to see how far I could take this before he finally woke up. And when he _did_ … he was going to have to fuck me into the mattress—this was turning me on like crazy.

I steadied myself by gripping his hips and started to suck. It was amazing how much he was doing without _actually_ being awake—he stutteringly jerked up toward my mouth.

A moment later, I kicked it up a notch, snaking a tentative finger under his ass. _That’s_ when he woke up.

“What?” he shouted, sitting bolt upright. His dick hit me in the face as he shot away from me.

I sat up, laughing, the blankets still sitting on my head like a hood. “Hi?”

He clutched his chest as he put the pieces together. “Alistair, you almost killed me.”

“Well, they do call it ‘the little death’ in Orlais,” I joked.

He smirked and looked down at his dick, which hadn’t lost any of its tenacity, I noticed. “So… now that I’m awake, are you _done_ with me?” he asked.

“Fuck no,” I breathed.

My lips were probably a little swollen and red. I say that because he couldn’t resist them when they were like that. He dove at me, kissing me harder than I was expecting. He managed to push me flat on my back before he bit my bottom lip. I groaned. It _hurt_ , but I was too far gone to care.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, we were lying upside down in our bed—heads at the bottom. Our sheets were destroyed—as was my ass, to be honest.

“How long were you _pretending_ to be asleep?” I asked suddenly.

Anders picked up his head to look at me. “What do you mean?”

I rolled to face him. “I _know_ you couldn't have been asleep that whole time,” I chided.

“ _How_ do you know?” he put an arm around my waist and kissed me through his smirk.

“Because I’m starting to _know_ you,” I answered.

“Okay, Al… let’s just say I _heard_ you come home…” he laughed.

“You’re such a sneak…” I smile.

“I think my sneakiness gets you off,” he asserted.

I guess it does. As usual, _Anders was right._


	6. "Good Night, Fenris" [Anders x Fenris]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Let it Glow" event organized by tumblr's teamblueandangry. The gift-requester (misterwiggums) requested a Fenders scenario where Justice had a positive effect on their union.
> 
> As always, you can prompt me for any pairing or scenario on tumblr @ponticle.

* * *

 

It’s the fourth night in a row he hasn’t come to bed. I know _why_ —I just wish I could help. His memories aren’t returning, but he hasn’t stopped _hoping_. Just like _I_ haven’t stopped—I haven’t stopped writing this damn manifesto that haunts me; I haven’t stopped trying to heal everyone in Kirkwall; and most of all, the least likely of _all_ scenarios, I haven’t stopped _loving_ _him_.

“Fen?” I round the corner and see him. He’s reclining across a high-backed chair.

His eyes are slitted—he’s barely awake. “Mmm?”

I kneel next to him. “It’s nearly dawn… maybe you should try to close your eyes for a while?” I ask.

He blinks and coughs. His breath smells like wine. “Stop mothering me, _Mage_ ,” he growls.

My stomach turns at the title—it’s an _epithet_ as far as Justice is concerned, but he and I both know enough about Fenris that we don’t judge. He’s angriest when he’s _hurting_.

“Love?” I stand and lean down to look into his eyes. “I promise you, this will all feel better in the morning.”

He looks like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets me pull him up and wraps his arm over my shoulders. Considering how thin he is, he seems to weigh a lot—he’s limp and clumsy in this state.

‘ _You’re the only thing holding him up_ ,’ insists a voice from deep inside. The part of me that is Justice is _right_ , of course. Tonight, it’s me and Fenris against the world—just like every other night.

At the edge of the bed, he squirms away from me and shrugs off his shirt. “Anders…” He raises an eyebrow. If anything, he looks bemused. “How much longer will you put up with this?”

I laugh, although it’s completely inappropriate—absurdity has always struck me as perversely funny.

“I’m serious…” Fenris wipes a palm across his face. It lands along the edge of a white tendril. “I’m a terrible drunk and an even worse bully…”

“Stop it…” I soothe, sitting next to him on the bed. “You’re wonderful…”

“Ha!” he cackles, which turns into a sort of dry wheezing cough. He gets hoarse when he drinks too much wine and too little water.

“Come on, let’s get you tucked in,” I offer, prodding him until he lies back and lets me pull the covers up to our shoulders.

He turns to face me and squints at me in the dark. His lips are pursed in a way I recognize—he has something to say.

“Yes?” I ask.

“You must be insane…” he says quietly.

I can feel a wrinkle forming between my brows.

“...because it’s obvious you _love_ me,” says Fenris.

The moment shatters. We’re suddenly laughing and rolling and kissing every bit of skin we can reach. Something deep inside warns me that this _can’t_ last—this isn’t _safe_. But I can’t be bothered. He’s wonderful and he’s _mine_.


	7. "Little Secrets" [Alistair x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the run following the events of "A Name." Written for @littlexabyss on tumblr for the Let it Glow event. This is full of anguish... and I love it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders' perspective - first person, present tense.

* * *

 

He doesn’t deserve this— _me_. He shouldn’t have to put up with all this turmoil. What has he ever done to warrant such a life?

We’re on the run… living in the back rooms of seedy inns and paying off bartenders to forget our faces. Most of the time, I think I should just _leave_ —take off in the middle of the night; free him from this unending cycle of hiding and running. But then, he does _something_ —something sweet and kind and tender… and it convinces me to stay.

“Love?” I roll onto my left side and we’re face to face.

“No, not yet…” he whispers. There’s a smile making wrinkles at the corner of his mouth, even though his eyes are closed.

“Come on, Alistair…” I start to sit up. “We’ve got to get out of here before the sun comes up…” In truth, we should have left already—the sky is looking dangerously pink.

He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me back under the covers. “ _No_ …”

His arms are strong, but he’s _tired_ —not just this morning, but _always_. He would never admit it, but this has been hard on him. In the deepest recesses of my mind, I’m convinced he’d be _relieved_ if I left. I’m sure he’d never admit that either.

“ _What_ then?” I ask, smirking, as he begins to open his eyes. “Just let the templars catch us? The Chantry? The Inquisition?”

He rolls his eyes. “Stay right here—just for a minute.”

The way he’s looking at me, I know I can’t argue. It _sounds_ like a gentle suggestion, but I know it’s more like a dying request. Neither of us will acknowledge it, but this might be the last morning we get to lie in bed together. This might be the last time we wake up in each other’s arms. _Every_ morning might be the last.

Doom settles around us. We both feel it, but neither of us says anything. Instead, I wrap my arms around his waist and kiss him deeply enough that I wonder if I’ll suffocate. Arguably, this would be a fine way to die—in the arms of the most handsome, gentle lover and partner I could possibly imagine.

Finally, when I’m gasping, he pulls back. “Okay… _now_ we can go…” He smiles—boyish and brave.

I nod and start to sit up again. “We’ll head west… if we can make it to Cumberland before dusk, we’ll be golden.”

“Anders,” Alistair’s voice is suddenly dark. I turn back to look at him. “If we didn’t have to run… would you still be with me?”

I blink—incredulous and confused. “ _Of course_ I would—why would you ask that?”

He shrugs. “I’m just never sure—is it the peril of the world that’s keeping us together? Are we _made_ for struggle?”

“I don’t know about the world, Alistair…” I lean in until I can’t keep his features in focus. “...but I know I’m made for _you_.”

And just like that I’ve decided to stay again. I’ve decided to keep dragging him along on this wild, dangerous, unpredictable ride. Because… _I love him_. What else can I do?

* * *

 


	8. Good Morning [M!Hawke x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @oblivianrose on Tumblr as part of the Let it Glow Even. Anders x Hawke in the middle of Act II—Anders wakes up to discover he’s in Hawke’s bed. Inner monologue rambles. Could this actually be happiness?

* * *

 

Before I open my eyes, I’m aware that I’m not in Darktown. For starters, there’s a pillow under my head and I’m not mysteriously wet or freezing. More convincing, though, is the slow breathing of someone next to me. It’s _melodic_ , really—a concerto begging for harmony and counterpoint.

I blink incredibly slowly. The first thing I see is _red_ —the bedspread, the canopy, the carpet. And then it’s _him_ —Hawke—the person I’ve secretly loved for three years. And I’m left wondering: how did we get here? ...to the place where my dreams are finally materializing?

He moves suddenly. I’m so shocked I almost fall out of bed. I’m not sure _why_ —he’s a human; it’s normal to move.

“Hi,” he mumbles.

I smile and blink a few more times—just to make sure he isn’t a mirage.

The next second, he’s pulled me across the sheets into his arms and he’s kissing my cheek and nose and lips. Objectively speaking, I’m sure he tastes terrible—we drank too much and made love and probably slept with our mouths open—but I’ve never tasted anything so _good_ in my life. It tastes like the beginning—like preamble to a story we haven’t even begun to write; like the overture to the most moving symphony.

When we separate, I’m ready to run. He’s scary up close—too beautiful and perfect to really look at.

“I better get going,” I mumble against his lips.

He raises an eyebrow, “ _No_ …”

I’m flushed—I can feel it.

“I told you I wanted you to stay,” he says. “I meant it.”

As I’m processing what ‘ _stay_ ’ could possibly mean in this context, I realize my hands are caged in front of my chest—bent and slightly numb. I try to free them without brushing against him, but fail. He treats that as an invitation and rolls me onto my back.

He’s smiling again, “Besides… we’ve only just begun…”

I blink, “Begun what?”

“The process of showing each other all the things we’ve wanted to do for three years…”

He kisses, touches, rolls, and roils. It’s so _sweet_ that I’m having an out of body experience. Justice insists that I need to get up, but I ignore him. I know this can’t last forever—experience has taught me that nothing _good_ ever does. But right now, with Hawke in my arms—his tongue in my mouth and hands in my hair—I can’t pull back. I need this. I need _him_.

* * *

 


	9. Plans [Anders x M!Hawke]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @shadowyin-yang on Tumblr as part of the Let it Glow event by @teamblueandangry. Anders/Garret Hawke. In the middle of Act III. Garret’s perspective, first person, present tense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never tried writing for Garrett Hawke before, but it feels good... my actual male Hawke's name is Christien... he's pretty great. Maybe someday I'll write for him. :)

* * *

He’s _planning_ something—I can tell. He asked me to help him: to go digging around in all manner of disgusting places looking for shit—to fight through hordes of spiders. He _says_ it’s to separate himself from Justice, but I don’t believe him. Which is odd, because I’m the person who _always_ believes him. I’m the person who sees the method to his madness. I’m the person who _loves_ him.

This morning he’s puttering around the kitchen downstairs. I can hear him laughing with Sandal and shooing my dog. He _sounds_ happy, but I know he isn’t—not _really_. I’m fine with playing along in public, but I wish he’d just _tell_ me.

“Good morning, Love,” he says. He looks up from the kitchen counter. He’s magically stirring a pot of something in his periphery.

“Morning,” I wrap an arm around his waist and kiss the side of his head. He’s soft and pliable today. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” he shrugs.

“ _Obviously_ …” I roll my eyes. “I meant _why_?”

“I need to stay busy…” He pushes a hand across his forehead and I see a telltale hint of blue flash in his eyes. He blinks a few times and manages to smile.

“If you needed a _task_ , you didn’t have to come down here…” I pull him toward me and smirk.

He laughs. “If you had it _your_ way, I’d never leave your bedroom again.”

“ _Our_ bedroom,” I correct.

He smiles. Something about it is _sad_ though—as if he means it won’t be like this much longer. As if he’s planning to _leave_. I start to panic until he turns to face me straight on.

“Of course, ‘ _our’_ ,” he kisses me. “You know what I mean…”

But I _don’t,_ actually. Even as he’s subtly biting my bottom lip, I’m wondering _in what universe_ anything in my life could actually be _mine_ and not _his_. _Everything_ I have is his. Every part of _me_. And that’s why it hurts so much—that he won’t tell me.

“Anders,” I whisper.

“Mmm?” His eyes are still closed.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I do,” he pats my arm and turns back toward the counter.

“Then let me _help_ you.” I lean into his field of vision.

“I can’t,” he says. This is the closest he’s come to an admission.

I sigh. “Anders… I love you—no matter what it is…”

“I know… and that’s exactly why I can’t let you get anywhere near this.”

There is no arguing with his tone, so I agree to stay in the dark… because at least we’re here _together_.

* * *

 


	10. Little Did He Know... [Alistair x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the "A Name" Universe... Anders hears his calling, but doesn't recognize it right away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 379 words. Just a tease.

* * *

 

Anders always believed that he would _know_ the calling when it came—that it would be obvious; that it would remind him of the nightmares or the sickness of the joining. But it _wasn't_ like that. The day Anders began to hear his calling, it took him _completely_ by surprise.

 

* * *

 

He opened his eyes and blinked into sunlight. It was another beautiful day in Antiva.

“Sweetheart?” called Alistair from the kitchen. “Are you up?”

Anders mumbled something that was _supposed_ to be words and sat up. A song was in his head—like a memory from a just-finished dream. He tried to hold onto the melody, but it was already fading. He dropped his feet over the edge of the bed and stretched. This little farmhouse had been _kind_ to them all these years. He'd never _imagined_ a scenario where they could stop running long enough for _this—_ a perfect little life.

“ _Anders_ ,” called Alistair, “I can _hear_ you…” he laughed, “come help me.”

Anders padded into the tiny kitchen without dressing. The morning air was warm and Alistair seemed to be filling the kitchen with additional heat.

“What do you need?” asked Anders sleepily.

Alistair whirled. “Oh… now you've made me _forget_ …” he raised an eyebrow and looked Anders up and down hungrily. “Let's just call it a day and go back to bed.”

Anders laughed and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. “Do you _need_ me to get dressed?”

Alistair hugged him and ran his fingers over Anders’ back. “No, I _strongly_ prefer you like this…”

All their days were like this now. They woke up early, made breakfast, tended to their garden and chickens, laughed, cuddled, made love, and went to sleep. _Rinse and repeat_. It was perfect.

 _This_ morning, though, Anders was having a hard time focusing as Alistair kissed the skin of his neck. There was a buzzing in his head that he couldn't seem to quiet.

“Are you okay?” asked Alistair.

“Yeah… I _think_ so.. I just have a headache,” he answered.

But it _wasn’t_ a headache—little did he know, he would soon be clutching his head and vomiting uncontrollably. Little did he know, he’d be begging for death before the day was out. Little did he know, his _time_ had come.

* * *

 


	11. Rain [Anders x M!Hawke]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I received a prompt on tumblr for a post-chantry-explosion vignette featuring my personal Hawke and his love interest... 
> 
> So here we have it... Hawke's POV: First Person, Present Tense, 694 words.
> 
> [Several days after the chantry explosion, Anders and Christien Hawke are on the run.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. This is so much fluffier than the crap I usually write. What is _happening_ to me?

* * *

Rain patters against the sides of the tent. It’s been pouring for the last three days straight. I can hear Anders stripping off his soaked clothes. I keep telling him not to go outside again until the rain stops… but when has he _ever_ listened to _me_?

“Hey, Christien? Are you still awake?” he whispers.

“Yeah… I’m up…” I mumble. I’m facing away from him on my side. I’m not sure why. I’m _not_ holding a grudge. I can barely even muster anger in light of _how much_ I love him, but I don’t feel _right_ , so I’m keeping my distance.

“Are you okay?” He curls in behind my back and wraps an arm around my waist.

I bristle and nod.

“Is it time to _talk_ yet?” asks Anders.

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay…” he kisses the nape of my neck and rolls away from me.

I’m _cold_ without him.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, I wake dazed. I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. One thing I’m _sure_ of, though, is that he’s not there.

“Anders?” I sit up, suddenly panicked.

No response—just more rain.

“Anders?” I crawl toward the mouth of the tent and peer out.

Nothing. _No one._

“Holy Andraste,” I mutter under my breath, gathering my boots and cloak. “Where the hell are you, Anders?”

The rain pelts me from every direction as I whirl and squint. _That’s_ when I hear it—a soft cry somewhere in the distance.

I trudge through inches of mud down a slippery embankment. At the bottom, I see him.

“Anders?” I rush to his side. He’s cradling his hand.

“Hi,” he whispers. His hair and clothes are soaked. When I get closer, I realize his lips are _blue_.

“Maker… what happened?” Without thinking, I take off my cloak and put it around his shoulders.

“This damn hill tried to murder me—must be in league with the templars…” he laughs weakly.

“It will have to go through me,” I say suddenly.

At that, he looks up—big brown eyes filled with something I can’t name. “Chris… I _love_ you,” he says through chattering teeth.

My heart seems to shatter—pain lancinating through my chest. “Can you walk?”

He nods, “I think so… but my hand is broken.”

I follow his gaze to a bloody, mangled wrist.

I smile gently and reach down to cradle the fracture between my palms. Blue light envelops the area and he shivers. I know this sort of thing _hurts_ while it’s healing.

“I’m lucky you’re such a good _student_ ,” he quips.

I close my eyes to concentrate and remember our lessons. The first day those lessons turned into _more_ , I thought I would die of happiness. He was finally _mine_. —but now… who can say _what_ we are? We’re fugitives—we’re _running_.

When I’m done, he opens and closes a tentative fist.

“Better?” I ask.

“It’s getting there…” he smiles, standing up.

His first step is shaky. I grab him around the waist and pull. The trek back up that hill is hard. It takes twice as long as it did on the way down. By the time we reach the tent, we’re both shaking and shivering—I’m as soaked as he is.

“Come on,” he says at the tent flap, “take those off.” He points to my clothes.

I nod and comply. It’s not sexy—nothing about this makes me feel like a human—but when we get inside, he tackles me against our lumpy mat.

“I’m sorry, Love, but I’m not letting you go,” he smiles softly, caging me in his arms.

I decide not to argue. Instead, I just pull our threadbare blankets up over his shoulders.

“I need to _tell_ you…” he begins.

I shake my head. I’m not _ready_ , but he keeps talking anyway.

“—I need to tell you that you’re the best healer I know…” he smiles. “Better than I am.”

I squint at him. That’s _not_ what I expected him to say. “How do you figure? Your hand isn’t even totally healed yet.”

He smiles wryly, “Because while you _thought_ you were fixing my hand… you were really fixing my _heart_.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm perpetually accepting prompts... and I like to use my imagination... so find me on [tumblr](http://ponticle.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ponticle)!


	12. Sleepy Anders [Hawke x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on [DAPromptExchange](http://dapromptexchange.tumblr.com/) about sleepy Anders and his love interest: _"Can you stop playing connect the dots with my freckles?"_ (In a nice way.)
> 
> ________________
> 
> I imagine this with my Christien Hawke... but it isn't specifically written gendered... so imagine away!

* * *

“Hawke, you’re _killing_ me,” complains Anders.

“Am I?” I giggle, “...is _that_ what I’m doing?” My fingertips wander across the surface of his skin with delicate precision. I’m tracing constellations and he _knows_ it.

“You do this every time I have to get up early!” growls Anders. He’s laughing, though; he can never stay angry at me very long.

I kiss the side of his head and double down, pulling the blankets back to see what I’m doing more clearly in the moonlight.

“...stop playing connect the dots with my freckles, you maniac!” he laughs.

“I can’t…” I pout. “They’re too beautiful…”

He rolls his eyes and turns away from me onto his side. I scoot in behind him.

“You have freckles _here_ too, you know,” I whisper through his hair. His back is dotted with them—so are his shoulders.

He groans into his pillow and sits up suddenly. I’m grinning. I know I should stop, but I _can’t_ —I love him so much it makes me giddy.

“What’s it gonna take, Hawke?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know what you mean…”

He quirks an eyebrow, “Name your price, Ser…”

I laugh, but I don’t actually want anything _from_ him—I just want _him_. “Just come here for a minute… or _ten_ …”

He relaxes back into my arms—gentle and pliable in every way that counts. “You really are the _worst_ , you know…”

“Yeah… I know…”

* * *

 


	13. Car Crash [Alistair x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair x Anders in a modern AU that I've _never_ put them in before. Feels like an origin story.
> 
> Based on the following tumblr prompt: "Anders just pools enough money together to get a new (secondhand) car. It's got scratches and bent panels but it goes and that's better than his last one. It's his first time driving it when some guy in a fancy car comes out of nowhere and takes his tail off. Anders is so furious he could flay this guy alive, who is stepping out of his car in his shiny shades drinking a coffee like nothing has happened. Anders is going to kill him, except the guy's looking at him like it's Christmas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love first meetings. They're the best.

 

* * *

Money has been tight for Anders lately—even more than usual. He's scraping by so he can get through veterinary school. He just has two semesters left.

He checks his bank account balance one more time over coffee. It's not a latte—he _wants_ one, but he gave them up months ago in his efforts to tighten his purse strings. Instead, it's some kind of instant garbage he grabbed from the school cafeteria. It's simultaneously burnt and cold.

At least all the money is in there—$3457.00—the most money he's ever had in his checking account at one time.

He takes the bus to the used car lot, checking his watch the whole way. He has to get there before ten in order to be out on time—an advanced invertebrate physiology exam is looming over his day. He _studied_ , but he's still terrified.

He signs for the car and hands over the cashier’s check. His account balance slides back down to a familiar number: $7.

“Well, Mr. Beasley, I'm glad to meet you,” he says to the car. He knows it's a funny name, but it's a funny _car_ too—full of dings and scratches. There's a stain on the passenger seat reminiscent of reproduction… but it's _his_.

He waves goodbye, checks his mirrors, and pulls out onto a busy street—six lanes of micro-aggression and over-caffeinated rat race. He's nervous—he hasn't had a car of his own in ages—but he needs one to get to an awesome internship he snagged for next term. He's hoping to someday work in Africa… One of the most important things he can do for his job applications is have some real world experience. This internship is perfect: It's at an animal reserve and he would be working in the big cat habitat. The only requirement he wasn't sure he could handle was reliable transportation… but he made it work!

He spends the next few seconds silently congratulating himself, until something stops him dead. His head is thrown violently from left to right, he bites his tongue as his jaw crashes against the steering wheel—a clunker this old doesn't have side-curtain airbags. Before he even knows what has happened, his front end is up on the curb and hurtling toward a guard rail.

“Shit!” he shouts, trying ineffectively to avoid it. He sees the whole accident in slow motion even though it's happening too fast to stop.

“God _fucking_ damn it!” He jumps out of the car and fights to keep his balance. His head is throbbing.

The scene in front of him tells the story. His car is mangled—more damaged than its original state by a factor of 10. A navy blue BMW is behind him—the front end is crushed, but not irreparably. It's definitely still drivable, which is more than he can say for poor old Mr. Beasley.

As the driver’s side door opens, Anders feels his temperature rising. He's about to give this person a piece of his mind. In the three seconds between the door opening and the driver's big reveal, Anders imagines the _asshole_ who is about to emerge—50s and thin with a Bluetooth earpiece and a douchey haircut, wearing golf attire and permanently attached to his cell phone.

But Anders _isn't_ right.

“Hey, I'm really sorry… I wasn't paying attention,” says his assailant.

The _only_ trait Anders got right was his perceived gender—this person is _antithetical_ to the perpetrator of Anders’ imagination. He's tall and broad and _incredibly_ well-dressed with tousled red hair and a tan across the bridge of his nose. Most importantly, he seems _sorry_ about the accident. Anders can't see his eyes behind mirrored glasses, but his eyebrows curve contritely.

“Are you okay?” the guy asks.

He's drinking a Starbucks latte, which makes Anders’ mouth water—he hasn't had one in _so_ long. There's also something compelling about this guy’s mouth—Anders subconsciously wants to see him drink.

Anders shrugs, “I think so?”

“I'm Alistair,” he takes two steps forward and puts a hand out toward Anders’ jaw.

Anders would normally reject such an overture, but his head _really_ hurts.

“I think you hit your head… you're _bleeding_ ,” says Alistair. “Do you need me to call someone?”

“I don't really _have_ anyone…” Anders replies. “...and I need to take an exam…”

Alistair raises an eyebrow, “with a head injury? That might be difficult…”

Anders shrugs.

“Let me at least take you to the hospital… I think you should be checked out,” says Alistair.

Anders notices that he's having a hard time keeping focus… his eyes are closing of their own volition.

 

* * *

 

The next thing he knows, he's somewhere bright.

“Hey?” says a voice.

“Hi.” Anders blinks a few times. Alistair is leaning over him. “What happened?”

Alistair shrugs. “You passed out and I called you an ambulance.” He seems nervous—it's _endearing_.

“What are _you_ doing here?” asks Anders.

Alistair bites his bottom lip. “I wasn't going to _leave_ you on the side of the road after I hit you with my car…”

Anders nods. “Oh my god... my _test_ ,” Anders tries to sit up, but Alistair puts a hand on his chest. It feels warm through the hospital gown.

“Don't worry… I handled it,” says Alistair.

Anders can't _begin_ to imagine what that means.

“I,” Alistair pauses, “I rifled through your wallet and found your student ID… and then I _insisted_ that the cop call your school…”

Anders feels his eyes widening.

“You're off the hook until you're medically cleared,” Alistair winks, leaning in.

“Am I?” Anders gulps some water from a plastic cup, “—medically cleared?”

“Technically, _yes_ … but you need someone to drive you home,” says Alistair.

They stare at each other silently while Anders tries to think of something to say. It is unbelievably awkward for unknown reasons.

“I can _drive_ you… if you want,” says Alistair finally.

Anders doesn't say anything.

“...I mean, I _did_ destroy your car… it's the least I can do…” he continues.

Anders can't argue with that.

“Okay… I just live a few blocks from here…” he shrugs in a noncommittal way, but Alistair seems sure.

He stands. “Ready when you are.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr or twitter. I'm always taking prompts... and I love a challenge. I'm @ponticle both places.


	14. Repeat [Alistair x Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt was to write a short piece that incorporates song lyrics. I filled it loosely :). The song of choice for this one is "The Good in Me" by Jon Bellion. It's super amazing, as is that entire album.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could also be categorized as Alistair/Anders because it sits in the Affair universe... but it's an early one, so I think my designation stands.
> 
> Speaking of The Affair... expect a new chapter imminently. :)

In the days following my discovery that Cullen was having a baby, I felt numb. I wandered through my days in a haze that only transiently cleared while I was otherwise occupied, but I still never really _felt_ anything until I met Anders. (And _that's_ another story, of course.)

_[You're making a ruin of me.]_

The one method I did have, though, was to drive around in my car blasting horrendously sad music that reminded me of Cullen. It focused all the diffuse melancholy and rejection into a burning ember of outrage in my chest. I remember it like it was yesterday.

_[Like a knife in the woods, you hunt down the good in me.]_

The worst part of all of this was _knowing_ there was nothing I could do. Cullen didn't love me—and there was no amount of pleading, fighting, screaming, or bargaining that would make a difference. I was powerless—except in that car. In its confines, I sang and screamed and cried and yelled.

_[You make me forget who I am.]_

Sometimes I still do that. _Sometimes_ it's even still about Cullen. The ones we love never really die. In that car, Cullen's _still_ the one who got away.


	15. Envy [Anders Alone]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders examines his feelings about freedom and responsibility in light of his plans. During Act 3. 
> 
> Created for @teamblueandangry's Anders Week. Theme for today is Envy/Kindness.

Anders watches with rapt fascination as Isabela licks Hawke’s neck. He isn’t supposed to be looking—he really _should_ look away, but he can’t. There’s something about the way she runs the point along the branch of Hawke’s throat that’s compelling— _arousing_ , even.

But that isn’t what he envies. He envies the freedom. He envies the _option_ —to love, to fuck, to lick someone’s neck in the middle of a bar. It’s an option that he’s never had. An option that was taken from him the moment he joined the circle. ‘ _Joined_ ’ is a strong word, actually. The moment he was captured—the moment he became a _prisoner_.

That’s what he _is_ , of course—a person whose entire life is decided by other people, a person whose choices have never been his own. So that’s what makes Isabela’s flagrant disregard for social norms even more infuriating. He couldn’t even kiss someone on the cheek without incurring the wrath of the templars, let alone initiate sexual preamble in plain view of a whole bar.

She’s _free_. That’s the crux of it.

Someone might argue that he’s free too. _Now._ ...but he isn’t. Not when there are mages to liberate and oppressors to overthrow. No, his life has never been his own. It wasn’t then and it isn’t now. So the most he can do is _watch_ —and envy. Isabela gets to be herself while he holds up the weight of the world—the weight of the future.

...but still. This is for the greater good.

So he’ll watch Isabela and secretly hate her while he works—tirelessly—to change the world. And someday he’ll be done. Someday he’ll walk down the street with a lover and kiss in public. Someday he’ll be whoever he wants.

But not today. Today he’ll wish. Today he’ll dream. Today he’ll _envy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always taking prompts, so if there's something you'd like to see, send me an ask on tumblr (@ponticle) or leave me a message here. :)


	16. Documentary [Alistair x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon on tumblr who wanted to understand the Anders/Alistair dynamic better. 
> 
> [The opening scene of a documentary.]

* * *

[Close shot of Anders and Alistair in partial focus. No sound. Anders picks a piece of lint off Alistair’s lapel as the shot widens. They speak to each other—smile, blink. Alistair’s laugh is the first thing the audience hears with a slow, gentle swell of music.]

 

**...on the relationship...**

**Alistair** : I mean, it’s been a lot of work, for sure.

 **Anders** ( _huffing_ ): Work?

 **Alistair** ( _turns away from the camera, laughs_ ): Yeah, well… I’m working _at_ it… at you… _for_ you.

 **Anders** : Don’t work. That’s what _they_ want you to do.

( _Alistair rolls his eyes_.)

 **Anders** : I think it’s been pretty easy, all things considered.

 **Alistair** : What relationship have _you_ been in?

 **Anders** : Ha! You’re the one who’s always saying I’m the best person you know. I guess the truth is coming out now.

 **Alistair** ( _smiling, blushing_ ): You are… it’s _because_ you’re so good that I’m working so diligently. ( _Turning to the camera_ ) He’s the only person in the world I’d try this hard for.

( _Anders covers his face in his hands_. _Alistair laughs._ )

 **Anders** : Okay… next question… let’s move on.

 

**...on causes...**

**Anders** : Well, I think that’s debatable… I mean, we both have things we care about… they’re just not necessarily the same things.

 **Alistair** : That’s what keeps it interesting, I think.

( _They nod to each other. Alistair smiles down at his hands_.)

 **Anders** : ...yeah, _interesting_ …

 **Alistair** ( _to the camera_ ): ...and dangerous… but what’s life without a little danger? I’ve never met a challenge I couldn’t overcome…

 **Anders** ( _interrupting_ ): Life isn’t a competition, Al…

 **Alistair** ( _leaning in toward Anders’ face_ ): _That’s_ debatable too.

 **Anders** : Well, nevertheless, _yes_ … I tend to be slightly single-minded when it comes to politics… but get _this one_ talking about the state of healthcare and we’ll all be here until next Tuesday.

 

**...on the future…**

**Alistair** : It’s really hard to say… I mean, we’re both working on things… internally and externally.

 **Anders** : But I’ll be here, you know.

( _Alistair stops; they turn to face each other: nose to nose_.)

 **Anders** : ...in whatever capacity I _can_ be… given the things I’m responsible for... you know that.

 **Alistair** ( _nodding_ ): Yeah, I know that. ( _beat_ ) The point is, we’re taking it one day at a time; negotiating… ameliorating…

 **Anders** : —hey, _I’m_ the one who said that…

 **Alistair** ( _winking at the camera_ ): See? He’s so smart. ( _Turning back to Anders_ ) I love that beautiful brain of yours.

 **Anders** (to the camera): Can we get another take? This is ridiculous.

( _Alistair wraps his arm around Anders’ neck and kisses the side of his head_.)

 **Anders** : Oh perfect…

 

[The camera pans toward the floor while it slowly loses focus and the music grows louder.]

 

[Title screen: **_Coincidences_** ]

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually got ridiculously excited to write a story about the making of a documentary after writing this. It might be my next big thing. :)


	17. It Starts in Small Ways [Alistair x Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @elfleed on tumblr who wanted Alistair and Cullen, featuring memory loss. I took some liberties... and gave you three options. 
> 
> Thank you!

* * *

**Dementia**

 

It starts in small ways: forgotten appointments and missing keys. It isn't until he calls me one day from the grocery store and says his car has been stolen that I know something is  _wrong_. I race to meet him—three miles and six streetlights at breakneck speeds only to find him standing on the sidewalk, staring at the ground.

 

“Cullen?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

“Damn it, Al.” His tone is sharp, but he isn’t looking at me; he’s still staring at the curb.

“Sweetie, what’s happening?” I tilt enough to catch his eyes—they’re glassy, unfocused…

“They took my fucking car,” he says.

“Who did?”

“Them! The fucking… shit… _you know_ …” He rolls his eyes at me and huffs.

I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s talking about, but I scan the parking lot, trying to understand. That’s when I catch the outline of a royal blue jeep in my periphery— _Cullen’s_ jeep.

“Sweetie… your car’s right there,” I offer.

He glares at me, but follows my outstretched fingers to where his car is clearly parked.

 

In the days that follow, he insists that jeep _isn’t_ his car… his car is a dark green sedan.

 _No, Sweetie… you got rid of that two years ago_ , I remind him.

He mumbles assent among myriad excuses: he _meant_ he’d lost the keys… he just got mixed up about the color... there was something _off_ with that new pair of glasses…

 

...but I know right then: I’m losing him piece by piece.          

 

 

* * *

 

**Drug Addiction**

 

It starts in small ways: fights forgotten, nights unremembered. I should know what it means, but I don’t. In fact, the moment I get the call, I’m _surprised_ , despite all the evidence—despite every ignored thing.

 

“Mr. Theirin,” says a grave voice, “I’m calling on behalf of a Cullen Rutherford?”

I blink into the darkness of our bedroom and squint at the clock. It’s just after two in the morning. I don’t wait for Cullen to come home anymore. Back when we were together— _really_ together—I used to wait up. Now, I can’t stand the way he smells and swears and _forgets_ so I go to bed alone.

“Mr. Theirin, are you there?”

“Yes,” I manage. “I’m here. Where is he?”

“We’re holding him,” says the woman. “The precinct at 132nd and Lexington.”

“He’s been arrested?” I ask, already stumbling out of bed and toward a haphazard pile of clothing—clashing patterns and mismatched socks.

“No…” she says, but she doesn’t sound sure.

“Then what is he doing there?” I ask.

“He’s—he’s confused, Ser…” She clears her throat nervously. “You’d better come down here…”

           

When I arrive, I _hear_ him before I see him. He’s raving like a lunatic—every word he says makes less sense and is less intelligible than the last. I explain who I am and they bring me to him. He’s alone in the holding cell, which begs the question: _who was he talking to_? When I come near him, he blinks at me helplessly.

“Al,” he slurs, “Thank the maker you’re here—I told them to get you… that _you’d_ know what to do…”

“What happened, Cullen?” I ask.

He reaches for me through the bars and grabs hold of my collar to haul me forward. It’s then that I realize my shirt is inside out. I left in such a hurry, I didn’t notice.

“I don’t _know_ ,” he says. He’s starting to cry. “I don’t… I don’t know…”

That’s when I notice the blood—smeared across his knuckles and crusted into the bed of each nail.

“Cullen,” I whisper, afraid of the sound of my own voice, “whose blood is that?”

“Al…” he squeezes his eyes shut, swallows a sob. “I don’t remember… I was… I was so high… I don’t _remember_.”

 

...and that’s when I know… there’s no saving him anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

**Traumatic Brain Injury**

 

It starts in small ways: a surprised blink, a squint, a wordless gurgle. They were signs I didn’t know how to interpret. They were signals I shouldn’t have ignored. Even when the doctors tried to explain it to me, I didn’t understand.

 

“Mr. Theirin, you have to be prepared for the possibility that he may not be able to communicate with you in the way you expect…” says the neurologist.

I squint. _What does that mean?_ “In what ways might he be impeded?” I ask.

“He may have trouble with coordination, cognition, _memory_ —”

“Memory?” I interrupt.

The doctor looks down at her hands—wrings them—before looking back at me. “It’s possible that he won’t know who certain people are… _you_ , even.”

I struggle to suppress a gasp.

“We won’t know anything for a couple days, but he’s been through something most people wouldn’t have even _survived_ ,” continues the doctor. “The human brain can only withstand so much…”

I nod and shrug, looking through the double-thick glass pane. He looks so small—helpless.

           

His words are a struggle now; he stutters and his voice shakes around every syllable.

“He-he-lllooo,” he says each morning, but he doesn’t know me any better today than he did the day before.

“Hello, Cullen,” I say, sitting next to his bed. When I reach for his hand, he lets me hold it, but there’s no recognition in his eyes.

We smile and watch the birds outside his window. I tell him how well his petunias are doing at home.

 

...and tomorrow, we’ll do it all _again_.

* * *

 


	18. Ships in the Night [Dorian x Anders]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for dragonsandfields who prompted me on tumblr: " Anders/Dorian in the canon setting... meeting somewhere they don’t expect... ships passing in the night."

* * *

Three days into an eight-day trek across the southern mountains, Dorian finds himself, _at last,_ alone. It’s not that he’s antisocial—in fact, he thinks he’s rather good with people—but he’s _tired_. This trip has taken it out of him… and when he’s like this, he finds solace in silence. It’s with mixed emotions, therefore, that he enters a crowded little tavern on the edge of a nameless town. To call it a _town_ actually seems ridiculous; it’s more of a hamlet—barely any population at all, and _everyone_ seems to be here. Nevertheless, he needs a drink and anonymity is its own kind of quiet.

It’s difficult to find a seat, but he manages it at the far end of a rough-hewn bar. Almost instantly, a bartender with dull, stringy hair asks him what he’d like. The accent is so thick—and unrecognizable—that he almost laughs, but time has taught Dorian to be gracious, even in situations where decorum isn’t expected.

When he’s ordered something akin to wine—although he anticipates it will be awful—he rests an elbow on the bar and props his chin, surveying the room. There are all the usual suspects: drunks laughing, people dancing, someone singing in a far-off and haunting tenor… but there’s _one_ person here who doesn’t fit… a sharp nose and pointed chin jutting past the hood of a thick, but worn, cape… despite their strangeness, Dorian considers both features rather _elegant_. In fact, the longer he looks, the more he wishes he could see the rest of this person’s face.

He gets his wish when the stranger’s eyes dart up and lock with his for a fractional second. Most people would look away in that situation—normally, Dorian would too—but he doesn’t even blink. Something about the look this person is giving him makes it impossible. In fact, it isn’t until he stands up and crosses the room toward Dorian, that worry starts to set in.

For a mad second, Dorian thinks he’s coming _to him_ ; he expects him to sit right next to him and order him a drink or ask for his name or invite him to a dirty room upstairs, but none of that happens. His _actual_ destination is someone standing in Dorian’s blind spot: another hooded figure, but big and brawny and a little dangerous-looking. Dorian watches, transfixed, as the first hood is thrown back to reveal straw-colored hair and deep brown eyes that inexplicably flicker cyan so briefly Dorian wonders if he’s hallucinating...just a blink and it’s gone.

The two hoods stare at each other silently in the middle of the busy hall—like a storm’s eye, everything seems to revolve around them. There’s something so familiar about _him_ —the first hood. Dorian just can’t put a finger on what it is… something about that profile, that flicker…

...and then he remembers all at once…

 _No. It couldn’t be_.

...but it _is_. It’s Anders. Dorian has never met him, but he knows him from the stories. The reality of him is gentler than Dorian expected, though. _Terrorist_ seems a bit harsh now that they’re only feet apart… now that Dorian can see the faint lines around his eyes and the way his jaw flexes nervously in the stillness. He raises his hand to the other hood, who turns out to be some kind of brutish-looking qunari while Dorian continues to gawk.

“Not here,” says Anders suddenly. The voice surprises Dorian; it’s so much softer than he imagined it would be, but there’s intensity there too—a threat tinged with clemency.

The qunari seems to have _other_ ideas, though, because he suddenly pulls a dagger from his hip and strikes out, so quickly that Dorian doesn’t even see it coming. The bar erupts all around quickly enough that Dorian doesn’t see what happens. He tries to stand from his stool, but finds himself pinned in on all sides by the angry mob. Of course, there’s nothing for _them_ to be angry about. It’s all voyeuristic idiocy, fueled by the fact that their town—hamlet—doesn’t have enough to keep them entertained. They have no idea that this person in front of them did something that changed all of their lives in one way or another… something horrible _and_ perfect… confusing _and_ logical… sudden and inevitable. Dorian’s mind slips into a diatribe on _these terrible southern simpletons_... only seconds before the lights go out.

 

* * *

 

 _Where am I_?

There’s a candle flickering to his left… the sound of a water basin… something wet and cold against his skin.

_Is someone humming?_

He blinks a few times; nothing will come into focus.

“Anders?” he croaks.

Anders doesn’t say anything, just dabs his forehead with the wet rag again.

“What are you doing?” asks Dorian, struggling to regain use of his faculties.

“Patching you up…” says Anders plainly. It’s only the second set of words Dorian has heard him say and he finds it just as surprising as the first. There’s _gravity_ in his voice.

 _Maybe it’s guilt_.

Dorian pushes himself up on his elbows and coughs. “What happened?”

“Some idiot hit you in the head with a wine bottle…” says Anders. “Seems fitting, though… wine always gives _me_ a headache.” He smiles as he says it. It’s insensitive, but Dorian likes it… humor in the macabre.

“And how did I end up here?”

“I dragged you up after I dispensed with the rest of those morons.” Anders dabs his forehead again. “You’re fine, by the way… just a few little pieces of glass I don’t want to leave in the cut when I heal it… wouldn’t want that pretty face of yours to have a _scar._ ”

Dorian laughs. “That wouldn’t do at all…”

They smile at each other—an agreement between the most disparate of strangers.

“I’m Dorian, by the way…”

“I know,” says Anders.

Dorian wonders _how_ , but he doesn’t ask.

“All right… that’s it then…” says Anders. He squints at Dorian’s face appraisingly. His eyes land somewhere near Dorian’s lips. “I could take off that bit of ironic facial hair for you while I’m at it…”

“Don’t you dare.”

“All right… well... let it never be said that I’m not accommodating…” Anders purses his lips. “Close your eyes.”

The moment Dorian does, he feels the wash of magic that means his head is no longer split in two. It itches where his skin mends itself, but he knows the work is good by how long it takes. He’s never had an inclination toward the healing arts personally, but he admires it—there’s _finesse_ in working with life that necromancy doesn’t require… a tempered kind of fury he has no interest in mastering.

“All right,” says Anders.

Dorian opens his eyes and sits up. The pain is all but gone—just a shadow of what it was a minute ago. He raises the fingers of one hand to the place where he imagines a scar could have formed. “Thank you,” he manages, running his fingertips over the smooth skin.

“Are you checking my work?” asks Anders. He’s throwing the wet rags into a basin that seems to be _filled_ with blood, but he looks over his shoulder at Dorian anyway. There’s a laugh in his eyes.

“I’ve heard you were talented, but you’ll pardon me if I don’t judge you on reputation alone,” says Dorian.

“I’d prefer you _didn’t_ … normally that doesn’t go well for me.” Anders laughs again, but it’s bitter at the end.

 _Sorry,_  thinks Dorian, but an apology seems glib… what is one word when his _life_ was just potentially saved? He settles on what he _can_ do: he can be thankful. “I appreciate you pulling me out of there.”

Anders nods, putting down the last of his makeshift bandages. He sits on the edge of Dorian’s bed. The mattress is lumpy and narrow, which makes moving over enough to accommodate him difficult and awkward, but Dorian manages it.

“What are you doing here?” Dorian asks.

Anders’ mouth twitches, then he takes a breath and sighs it out in some approximation of a laugh. “Just running… it’s a default behavior of mine…”

Dorian nods. “Where are you running _to_?”

“To?”

Anders pushes a hand through his hair, but a single lock sticks out in front of his right ear. Dorian’s eyes follow it to where it brushes his collar bone. He’s so _thin_.

“If you need somewhere to stay for a while… I could talk to the Inquisitor… I could—”

Anders shakes his head. “I don’t need anything. I’m used to being alone.”

They stare at each other. That blue flicker is back behind his eyes, but it’s sad this time.

Inexplicably, Dorian finds his mouth forming the words, “ _I_ am too…”

Anders’ eyes widen fractionally and he swallows. Time stretches.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Dorian wakes alone. The birds outside the small inn’s window chirp pleasantly and the sun is shining in bands of warmth, but Dorian feels cold. Standing without care for the sheets that trail behind him on the floor, he crosses the room. It’s small: there’s nowhere Anders could be hiding, but he _looks_ anyway. He laughs at himself. Anders is a ghost, a spectre, a person who never even really existed. Anders is barely even an _idea_ … and yet…

When he turns back toward the bed, takes in its disheveled sheets, and remembers the way it creaks…it gives him pause… when does an idea become reality? Is the truth of _action_ inviolate? That’s when he sees the note:

 

[Dorian. Alone together is not the _worst_ thing.]

 

The words are slanted and sloppily written, but when Dorian looks at them, they feel important… like the echo of something that _could have been_ … as invisible and painless as the place where he has no scar…

His fingertips trail the new skin again.

...but Anders wouldn’t allow that… no trace to serve as reminder... and he won’t allow this either.

 

_Goodbye..._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your prompt. I love this pairing... I think they have a lot of potential to change each other... to evolve... to grow... maybe they'll meet again someday and we'll find out. :)


	19. Impossible [Alistair x Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Aurlana's prompt about Cullen and Alistair taking advantage of templar skirks in under 500 words. You naughty, thing, you. ;)

 

* * *

The fabric cuts and burns. It’s much too thick for this time of year and _here_ —stretched taut across damp skin—it defies logic. It proves that this impossible thing... this thing that _can’t_ be happening… _is_.

“Take… take it _off_ ,” begs Alistair. His lips are smashed against the edge of Cullen’s shoulder. There’s a particularly sharp buckle cutting into the skin of his cheek, but he can’t feel it. All he knows is the surging, thrumming, raging haze that makes his face flush and body ache.

“ _Can’t…_ Andrast—” but Cullen can’t form words any more easily than Alistair can… because there’s _confusion_ here… and it’s just as strong as the want. Alistair feels it in every breath… each grunt and whimper…

 _Please_.

His mind slips sideways as Cullen bypasses fasteners and straps. He reaches, grabs, rips… and…

“Maker…” breathes Alistair.

It’s hot and wild… unfamiliar and raw… and there’s still too much in between: cloth separating chests with freshly grown hair and metal where only skin should be… but he’s _here_ —Cullen. He’s here and real and for the first time in his life Alistair thinks he might actually get something he wants—something he _needs_.

           

[bang]

 

A crash in the next room sends them reeling—careening toward opposite walls, straightening shirts and buttoning collars…

“What is it?” whispers Alistair.

Cullen shakes his head, still silently heaving. Even in the variable shadow of a single flickering candle, Alistair can see—this was _something_ … but maybe something he’ll never have again.

“I’ll leave first,” says Cullen—a mask covers the face he had a minute ago… the one that looked like _hope_.

“Okay…” agrees Alistair, but he doesn’t move an inch until Cullen is gone—stomping down the hall toward the chapel—already repenting, no doubt… already _regretting_.

...and Alistair stays—back pressed against cool stone and heart thumping in his chest. And it’s thrilling… and it’s sad… and it’s wonderful… and it’s horrible… but mostly it is what it always was: _impossible_.

* * *

 

 


	20. Antechamber [Alistair x Anders x Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @aurlana gave a group prompt about Cullen and Alistair and uniforms... @little_abyss filled that prompt in a way that left a variety of questions. Let's call this an answer? Definitely read the original prompt fill first [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486800/chapters/33819804).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: parochial school setting, voyeurism, performative sex... and probably a variety of others... it's a bit raunchy.

* * *

As the kid walks away, Alistair’s still thinking about that skirt—imaging the implications of open access and what those underwear would look like on their own, but it all abruptly comes to a halt when Cullen starts to stride off.

“Hey, what are you doing?” asks Alistair.

“You heard him; five minutes,” says Cullen, rolling his eyes.

Alistair gapes. “You’re not _actually_ going to meet him, are you?”

“ _You’re_ the one who told him he looked hot,” snaps Cullen.

“Yeah, but I was kidding.”

“You were _not_ kidding.” Cullen raises an eyebrow and smirks in a way Alistair finds both enticing and threatening.

“Yeah… well…” but Alistair doesn’t have words for this argument anymore, something like jealousy is starting to erupt in his chest. It’s mad, of course—Cullen isn’t anything to him but a friend… a receptacle for a few secret fantasies, maybe, but nothing substantive.

“Done being a spoilsport?” Cullen’s hands are on his hips and he looks imperious. It’s quite a look to have when _he’s_ the one who’s about to break every school rule, when he’s the one who is always concerned with doctrine, when he’s the one who always _judges_.

“Well, fine…” says Alistair, puffing up his chest and pursing his lips. “If you’re going, I’m going with you.”

 

* * *

 

They trudge side by side to the chantry. There’s nothing odd about going there, but Alistair feels like everyone he sees knows he’s up to something. He’s not good at sneaking, as a general rule.

“He’s probably not even going to be here,” whispers Alistair at the door.

Cullen shrugs.

Alistair _hopes_ he is, though, for reasons he doesn’t fully understand—hopes and fears.

“Took you long enough,” calls a voice. Alistair knows it’s _him_ without even turning around, but he does—turn. In fact, he sort of whips. It’s fast enough that he loses his balance part way through and has to grab the edge of a pew to keep from falling over. The other kid definitely notices too, because he laughs.

“So what do you want?” asks Cullen. He’s managing to stay calm through this whole ordeal, it seems.

“So business-like… how about a name first?” asks the kid. “I’m Anders.”

“Cullen,” then he gestures. “This is Alistair.”

When Anders’ eyes land on Alistair, something about his face changes. It’s a look Alistair has imagined on the faces of a variety of people, but never actually seen directed _at him_.

“So…?” prompts Cullen.

Anders doesn’t look away from Alistair, though. He’s licking his lips perversely when he finally answers. “Here’s the deal,” he says. “I need to get off grounds this weekend, Prefect.”

Cullen scoffs.

“... _and_ …” adds Anders. “I’m willing to go to some _lengths_ to make that happen. Longer than this skirt, if you know what I mean.” He winks at Alistair, then snaps his eyes up to Cullen’s in something like a dare.

“What could you possibly… give me?” asks Cullen. He’s trying to sound sure, but Alistair knows him well enough to know it’s a lie. There’s a quiver in his voice and his throat sounds raspy.

“I’m prepared to do a lot more than _give_ ,” says Anders.

That nets him a loud gulp from somewhere deep in Cullen’s throat.

“—but for starters,” adds Anders, “I think your friend here wants to see what’s under my skirt.”

Cullen’s eyes narrow and turn toward Alistair at the same time Anders’ do.

“What?” manages Alistair.

“Come on, you do think it’s _hot_ , right?” baits Anders. “That’s what you said…”

“Well… yes...um…” Alistair feels sweat beading against the inside of his sharply pressed collar. He’s so careful about buttoning it all the way up—now it feels like it’s choking him.

“...and _you_ , Prefect,” he snarls around the word, “have been staring at me for weeks—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

 _Weeks_? That ember of jealousy is back, but there’s something else in it too—something wanton and wild. Alistair straightens, suddenly feeling brave, and takes two deliberate steps toward Anders. “So what’s your offer?” he asks, sounding sure.

Anders laughs and pushes a hand through his too-long hair. It’s an easy gesture, as if he _isn’t_ about to suggest something horrifying.

“I’m going to show you what’s under my skirt,” he says quietly. “...and you’re going to like it… and Cullen is going to watch, unless he decides he can sully his perfect reputation.”

Alistair gulps. He doesn't dare look at Cullen because he knows he’ll turn beet red, but he _wants_ to. He wants to have some secret sidebar conversation—a strategy session where they say, ‘so we’re _really_ doing this?’ There isn’t time for any of that, though.

“So, boys, do we have a deal?” asks Anders. “A little show for Cullen and I’m out of here Friday afternoon?”

 _Silence_.

Alistair still doesn’t turn to look, but he knows Cullen agrees, because the look on Anders’ face changes—his lips curl into a pleasing and terrifying shape. “Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

The antechamber is used primarily for storage these days, although Alistair knows it used to be for complex ceremonies. Dusty candlesticks and old, sun-bleached bolts of fabric lie haphazardly across the arms of broken chairs and carelessly on the floor. It’s a dump, really, but at least it’s unlikely that anyone will come in.

“All right, Al,” says Anders, once the door is shut. “Can I call you Al?”

Alistair shrugs. It seems pointless to even have a name for this—whatever this this…

“Come here,” says Anders. He reaches out and grabs Alistair by the hand to pull him toward the closest spot free of debris. When they’re standing face to face, Alistair’s back pressed up against the wall, he smiles. “All right, Al… what do want?” His eyebrow twitches up and his eyes go dark.

 _Want_? Alistair has lots of desires; he flagellates himself over them almost daily, even though it never stops him from recalling them when he’s alone in the dark, but now that he’s been asked his words dry up.

Anders seems to understand this almost instantly, because he doesn’t stop talking. “You like the way I look, don’t you?” he asks. His fingers go to the collar of his shirt, nimble and slender, deftly unbuttoning his first three buttons.

Alistair watches with rapt fascination as a beam of sunlight from the stained glass windows high above illuminates a patch of alabaster skin and glints off the blonde hair there.

“I think you’ll like the way I feel even more,” adds Anders. He reaches out with his other hand and grasps Alistair’s wrist, pulling it toward the newly exposed skin.

It’s _soft_. Alistair gasps a little. He doesn’t want to, but it happens.

Anders laughs, but it isn’t derisive. It’s rather gentle, actually. He steps forward, effectively pressing Alistair’s fingers further against his chest and pushing one knee between Alistair’s thighs.

Alistair has a strong urge to lean forward and close the gap between them. His mouth opens and closes, imitating the most rudimentary of kisses, but it’s Anders who chooses for him; he leans forward and kisses him so hard that his head smacks painfully into the wall behind him. His tongue slides between Alistair’s lips and someone moans; Alistair almost thinks he did it himself—that it comes from some secret guttural place he didn’t know he had… but then he remembers: they’re not alone.

His eyes snap open and he turns his head to see Cullen just a few feet away. He’s standing stock still—upright and rigid—but his mouth is wetly open, spit glistening perversely in the eerie stained glass light.

“Yeah… you like this, don’t you, _Prefect_?” laughs Anders. He chases Alistair’s lips and bites the bottom one, pulling it away performatively. It’s simultaneously the sexiest and most horrifying thing Alistair has experienced in his young life… and that’s when he realizes—Cullen likes it… and _he_ likes it too.

Feeling emboldened, his hands fly to Anders’ hips and pull him forward, closing the small gap of air between them. His thighs tighten around that one thin leg below the hem of the skirt in a show of spastic paralysis. It feels utterly involuntary, but Anders responds in kind, grinding himself against Alistair’s thigh in long, slow circles. It’s almost a dance—performance art of the burlesque variety. Between rough kisses he looks over his shoulder at Cullen and bites his lips. Cullen still hasn’t moved, though. He looks frozen—a prehistoric bug caught in amber. The only sign that he’s still _alive_ is the ragged movement of his chest as he tries to breathe. Alistair watches it rise and fall in stuttering bursts, even as he grinds the crotch of his pants against Anders.

“Touch me,” says Anders suddenly.

For a second, Alistair doesn’t know what he means. He looks at him searchingly, body still moving of its own volition.

“ _Touch_ me,” Anders repeats. He pulls one of Alistair’s hands down, off his waist, across his hip, and to the sharp edge of that perfectly pleated skirt.

Alistair doesn’t resist. He lets his fingers trail up under it, prickling across sparse hair and increasingly soft skin to the hem of that underwear. It’s at this thin barrier that he pauses, although everything in him aches.

“Well?” asks Anders. His mouth is only an inch from Alistair’s. Alistair can feel his breath, warm against wet lips. “Take them off.”

Alistair gulps. It’s a strange thing to ask for since he’s effectively pinned between Anders and a wood-planked wall. He hasn’t been in control of a single thing that’s happened since they came in here, but now he’s being given carte blanche. _And_ … Cullen is here—silently wrestling with himself… Alistair can tell.

So he doesn’t think—he rips. The fabric gives way easily; it’s even flimsier than Alistair expected. Before he knows it, those white, cotton panties are just a memory around Anders’ ankles.

“That’s it,” coaches Anders. He sighs out a breath and pushes his cock forward into Alistair’s hand. “Fuckin… andraste…”

Although Alistair’s mind has absolutely abandoned him, he doesn’t miss a wince from Cullen at the religious expletive. He’s nothing if not predictable… in fact, the only thing Alistair _didn’t_ see coming is the way his hand moves toward the crotch of his wool pants. They’re perfectly pressed and clean—he irons them _every_ morning—but now their flat front gives way to an obvious bulge. Alistair shivers.

“You like that, huh?” asks Anders. He smirks over his shoulder at Cullen, then looks back up to Alistair. “Do you wish he’d just get it over with?” He leans down to lick the side of Alistair’s neck, still thrusting is his cock gently in and out of Alistair’s fist.

It feels _so_ good—like something Alistair never let himself dream. In fact, even though his own cock is trapped under layers of fabric and pressed in tight against Anders’ thigh without hope of release, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so alive. So it’s with some level of confusion that he hears himself answer, “No.”

Anders picks his head up sharply. “No? No, what?”

“I don’t wish Cullen would…” he gasps and swallows, “get it over with… I want him to watch us… and do nothing.”

Anders’ eyes go wide and he smiles, evidently caught off-guard. “Well, well, Al… you’re surprising, aren’t you?” He laughs and looks over his shoulder again. “I don’t know, Prefect… are you going to let him push you around like that?”

Cullen bites his bottom lip. It looks painful, but he doesn’t say anything.

Anders turns back and looks at Alistair. “Well, it seems you have the upper hand.” As Anders speaks, he trails the fingers of one hand across Alistair’s stomach until his palm rests against his crotch. The fabric is still too thick, but there’s warmth in that hand that Alistair didn’t expect. It makes him shiver, but he’s thinking about those _words_ … the upper hand…

“Come here,” says Alistair suddenly. With alacrity that seems to surprise everyone, he whirls Anders around until their positions are reversed and drops to his knees. For one silent second, he turns and looks at Cullen, then he lifts the skirt.

Anders tastes like salt and smells like clean laundry, even though his skin is damp and he’s panting. As Alistair sucks him into his mouth, he closes his eyes and _listens_. The first whimper comes from Anders—he _thinks_ , based on the pitch… it’s high and reedy… the most haunting woodwind—but the second sound is unmistakable: a low growl that Alistair has only ever heard late at night when Cullen thinks no one is listening.

“Yes…” breathes Anders. “Just like that.” He threads his fingers through Alistair’s hair and scrapes his nails against the scalp. “I’m—I’m gonna…”

Alistair grips the skin of Anders’ hips and squeezes his eyes shut. His cock aches and his body is thrumming, but he can’t care… all he knows _in the world_ is the rhythm of Anders’ hips and the melody of his moans… a counterpoint of forbidden pleasures.

—and then it’s over… almost more quickly and strangely than it all began. Come floods the back of his throat and he swallows around it more deftly than he thought he might. And in the aftermath, there’s relative silence: staggered breathing, but no words. As the haze begins to clear, he opens his eyes and stands up.

Anders smiles at him weakly. That daring expression is still there, but it’s undercut by the heaviness of his body against the wall and in Alistair’s arms, which find their way back to Anders’ waist.

Alistair smiles hesitantly at Anders, then looks at Cullen. That’s when he notices something is wrong: the expression Cullen wears is unfamiliar and smacks of something like contrition.

“Next time, don’t be such a _tart_ and join us, Prefect,” says Anders.

It takes Alistair a second to put the pieces together. Cullen’s palm is resting protectively over the front of his pants, even as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you could just say a few _prayers_ and the Maker would forgive you,” teases Anders. He pulls away from the wall and walks over to Cullen deliberately. “Although, if you can’t overcome your guilt, I _do_ like to be watched… and it seems like Al does too.”

Alistair watches Cullen’s face for a sign that he’s about to get less friendly, but nothing happens.

Anders pulls up his underwear—such as they are—and adjusts his skirt. “See you Friday, Prefect… don’t be late.” He walks toward the door, but stops two steps shy. “And Al… if you see me around… say hi, all right?”

Alistair wants to say something witty—something that will make Anders _stay_ , even—but he has no words for this… he never did. So instead, he decides to stand next to Cullen, feeling awkwardly accomplished, and wait until the swish of Anders’ skirt is just a faint memory…

—except… _no_.

“Hey, Anders!” he calls, walking fast. “Wait.”

...and Alistair bounds out into the hallway, feeling boyish and brave, leaving the judgment and repression of the antechamber behind. He’s spent too long wondering. If Cullen wants to hide, that’s up to him. Alistair might be someone _new_.

* * *

 


End file.
